Tag: family

Angel

On By VievesVineIn Everyday LifeLeave a comment

I started down the stairs when the sound of voices paused my progress.

I knew our friend Lloyd had stopped by for coffee with Gary, but their banter didn’t come from the kitchen. Like the steam floating above their hot mugs, conversation wafted up from the family room. 

I made like a “firefly on a wall” and tuned in.

A tinkling of bells trilled, stopped, then sang again. The melody repeated once, twice, four times. I pictured the lights on our Christmas tree switching on and off.

“It’s a magic wand,” I heard my husband say.

“Wowwww,” said Lloyd. “That’s so cool. Just like magic. Let me try it again.”

“My granddaughters love it,” said Gary.

Sounded like the grands weren’t the only ones who got a kick out of our magic Christmas (remote control) wand.

“Love your tree,” said Lloyd.

“The kids made a lot of the ornaments when they were young,” said Gary. 

I heard my husband point out three cardboard star ornaments—two blue, one gold—each holding a kindergarten photo of one of our children.

I never thought Gary paid much attention to our Christmas trees or the ornaments. I didn’t realize it until that moment, but all these years, I had imagined he just put up with the tradition. 

I leaned against the stair post on the landing and listened to the two men admire the ornaments.

“Hey,” said Lloyd, “someone took some time to stitch these.”

“Gen cross-stitched those—back when I was in Vet school.”

In my mind’s eye, I saw the green and white-checked cat, a cherub holding a star, and a sparse-needled Christmas tree—a few of the many ornaments I had cross-stitched while Gary studied.

The men’s voices stirred me from my reverie. 

“Look up there,” Gary said, “she’s the most special of them all.”

What? She? Who? I strained my ears to hear.

“That angel has topped our tree since our first married Christmas,” said Gary.

“Ohhh,” said Lloyd. “She’s beautiful.”

I, too, saw her golden hair, oval green eyes, and the metallic gold fabric wings that extend from the back of her flowing ivory gown, trimmed in glittery organza.

In the early years of our marriage, over the days leading up to Christmas, our angel cast hope upon us. But she spent her first four Christmas days alone in Alabama, one in a tiny apartment and three in our upsized mobile home. 

How lonely she must have been on the top of that unlit tree while we opened gifts beneath trees in West Virginia with our families. 

Our angel liked our first house, the one we bought when Gary took a job in Martinsburg. The tiny, white Cape Cod complemented her shine. She added charm to the built-in bookshelves on either side of the living room fireplace and to the corner cabinets in the dining room.

Our angel followed us without complaint when we relocated to a minuscule apartment in Bridgeport. We moved from there to a small red brick house a few streets away, and then to the “little brown house” while we looked for something roomier for our growing family.

From the tops of our many trees in the foyer of our rambling “this ole house,” our angel presided over our youngest child’s first Christmas. She survived the earthquakes of a few tree-climbing cats. She smiled over the merry laughter from more than a few “day before the day before” (Christmas) parties.

I don’t remember where we bought her, but I know why. I grew up topping my childhood trees with an angel.

We chose our angel because she felt safe, comfortable—at least to me, and from what I heard downstairs that morning, my husband feels the same way.

Boozy bandit

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When I read about the liquor store break-in in Hanover County, Virginia, a visual image of my brother entered my mind. I pictured him running through the broken door of the store and along the aisles of glass bottles.

I said to myself, “Self, snap out of it!”

My brother may live in Hanover County, Virginia, but he was not the sneaky liquor store lawbreaker.  He’s got better things to do.

For one, he keeps his grands a couple of days a week. I’m sure he’s too tired on those nights to consider leaving the comfort of his bed to do anything, much less break into a liquor store.

For two, my brother plays pickleball. There may be pickle-ballers who are thieves on the side, but I doubt it. They wouldn’t want to face jail time unless they were guaranteed the facility provided state-of-the-art pickleball courts.

For three, my brother has been busy, busy rehearsing for an annual variety show his church sponsors each year. After putting in all those hours, he wouldn’t have wanted to take a chance on getting arrested and missing the performance. 

For four, my brother doesn’t match the suspect’s description. He is not one to wear a mask. He doesn’t have a black fur coat, and last I checked, he does not sport a bushy tail.

Mask? Fur coat? Bushy tail?

Exactly.

The liquor store in Hanover, Virginia, was ravaged by a raccoon—as in the nocturnal animal known for knocking over garbage cans, raiding gardens, and digging up lawns. Raccoons destroy roofs, gnaw on wires, and rip insulation.

I should know. Once upon a very, very long time ago, a family of five trash bandits took up residence inside our chimney. We turned into the driveway one night, and our car’s headlights caught a chubby raccoon scurrying up the lattice. 

We turned a flashlight toward the roof, and there they were—Mom, Dad, and their three kits hanging over the side of the chimney. They were probably scouting out which houses they’d terrorize that night.

After the trespassers were caught and “re-homed,” that chimney came down.

Oh, raccoons look so cute and cuddly with their tiny, pointed ears, ringed tails, and bandit faces. But they make trouble wherever they land.

This one landed—literally—in a store that peddles alcohol. Animal Control Officer Samantha Martin said the raccoon “fell through one of the ceiling tiles and went on a full-blown rampage, drinking everything.”

Imagine the faces of the employees when they returned to work the day after Thanksgiving to discover an early morning Black Friday break-in had taken place. Imagine following a path of smashed-up bottles and finding a raccoon passed out, drunk on the bathroom floor.

This scenario brings a couple of questions to mind:

Was the crime premeditated?

Did the raccoon acquire his taste for scotch and whiskey before he burglarized the liquor store?

Could it be that the culprit didn’t “fall” through the tiles, but had been a long time working his way through the roof with a night on the town in his sights?

Who knows? But it’s interesting that he, like most inebriated individuals, knew to make his way to the toilet.

Of course, these questions will go unanswered unless the raccoon—who was released back into the wild after he sobered up—loots another liquor store.

Until then, the only thing I can say for certain is that the guilty, drunk intruder in Hanover County was not my brother.

The berries

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After taking a dip in the lake on a warm July evening, I took Louisa’s hand, and we hiked up to our castle on the hill. Our castle is our home away from home, though some mistake it for a cabin.

When my three-year-old grand and I reached the smooth fieldstone steps, we bumped into Bartholomew. Bartholomew is our resident toad. He lives in his own castle, deep in the cracks between the rocks that form a wall along the back of ours.

“Look, Louisa, there’s Bartholomew,” I said. “He’s come out to say ‘Hello’ to you.”

Louisa crouched low and tilted her head forward to have a better look. 

“Can I pat him?” she asked.

“Sure.”

The toddler reached out and lightly stroked the toad’s bumpy back with her index finger.

Bartholomew didn’t hop away until Louisa caressed his leathery skin a second time. 

My baby grand giggled when I said, “Wow, Louisa, Bartholomew thinks you’re the berries!”

I shared this story with some friends in South Carolina and discovered they had never heard the expression: “You’re the berries.”

“You’re the berries is the same as telling someone she is the bee’s knees or the bomb.com or, more simply put, the best,” I said. 

If you look up the phrase, experts claim it’s slang from the 1920s, not tied to any particular region in the U.S.  It says the same thing about “the bee’s knees.” 

I beg to differ. 

For one, when I related the story of Louisa and Bartholomew to my WV friends, they all knew exactly what “you’re the berries” meant.

For two, the 1920s took place a long, long time before I came into the world, and I am more than familiar with “you’re the berries” and “the bee’s knees.”

Old sayings? Probably. Slang they may be, but both phrases appear to be common in the Mid-Atlantic region. In the South, not so much.

While living in Alabama, Gary and I raised our eyebrows when a neighbor offered to “carry” us in her car to the store. 

It was also in Alabama that we heard news reporters say, “A cutting occurred last night around midnight.” “Cutting” as in someone had stabbed (or knifed) someone else.

In Charleston, SC, when I said, “Will you all be joining us at the courts?” a woman replied, “You all? You all? You must be from the north.”

True Southerners say, “Y’all.” 

OK. Fake Southerners also say, “Y’all” (bless their hearts), but it’s easy to tell genuine from imitation when it comes to dialect.

West Virginians face the problem of being stuck in between. Northerners consider us Southerners, and Southerners deem us Northerners. 

But I know I am a “you all” and not a “y’all.”

Midwesterners also have unique sayings. My hair ties are their hair binders. I would rather when they have their druthers. When I see a baby, I say, “Oh, how cute.” Midwesterners say, “Oh, for cute!”

The Western part of the U.S. claims its own slang to fame. For “all talk and no action,” they say, “All hat and no cattle.” People who talk too much are “jawing,” and a “tenderfoot” is someone in training.

Westerners say, “Don’t squat with your spurs on” and “Never ask a barber if you need a haircut.”

Food for thought.

Born in South Carolina, my grand toddler is a true Southerner with West Virginia in her blood. At three, she worked out her own understanding of “You’re the berries.” 

While eating breakfast the morning after she met our resident toad, Louisa said, “Vieve, will we see Bartholomew today?”

“I hope so,” I said, “but he doesn’t usually come out this early.”

At that, Louisa smiled at her mom and dad, and said, “Bartholomew thinks I’m the fruit!”

The stuff that makes us whole

On By VievesVineIn Throwback2 Comments

(Throwback re-post by request)

Funny how just a smell, taste, sight, sound, or a place can land us in the middle of a memory.

The scent of homemade bread puts me back at the table in my grandmother’s kitchen. At the sight of a child clanging a triangle, I’m a second grader again in Miss Hatfield’s music class holding out my fist for her to rap my knuckles with a ruler—probably for talking.

Whenever I hear Three Dog Night belt, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog,” I’m back dancing with my friends on the hardwood floor of the school gymnasium. The smell of a fresh, plowed field sends me racing between rows of tall tobacco plants across the street from our house in Kentucky, the soft mud squishing beneath my bare feet.

But I’m carried back to two special moments every time I play the third hole on the golf course at the Bridgeport Country Club, and whenever I hear the 1960s hit “Moon River.”

The summer the doctors added the word “terminal” to his name, my father danced over the green on Number Three. It was one of those days the sun lures golfers away from their day jobs to play hooky on the long, lush fairways. Number Three is also a par three, and my drive that afternoon dropped in the sand trap just below the green. Social golfer that I am, I was thrilled to land a ball anywhere near the hole.

Dad chipped up onto the green and waited for me, his hand ready to pull the flag. I laughed when I saw him, hat askew, fingers tight around the pole. I grabbed my sand wedge and trudged over to the beach. I hoped to only whiff the shot once, but I made contact on my first try, hitting sand first, then the ball.

I climbed out of the trap as my ball hit the short grass with a soft thud. I stepped onto the green just in time to see it roll into the cup. Dad howled, kicked up his heels, and danced around the flag. Then he skipped over to me, looped his arm through mine, and swung me ‘round and ‘round across the green.

A few months later, I danced one final time with my dad. The last leaf sashayed to a ground gone cold. Women wrinkled their brows over their first ponderings of a fat turkey stuffed at both ends. Men pulled blaze orange off their cellar hooks and prepared their guns in time to inaugurate buck season. Children, eager eyes toward December, sharpened their pencils for letters to Santa.

Me? I was with my dad, just the two of us. We were taking a walk around the house when he looked up into my eyes and said, “You’re not supposed to be taller than me.”

It was true. Cancer had reduced his frame, once just shy of six feet, by pounding him into a 5’4” cell. But he smiled, slipped his right arm around my waist and clutched my shoulder for support with his left.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Dad embraced me, pressed his cheek next to mine, and hummed the bars of Moon River. Our steps were small and cautious, but he did not let the disease that stole away his strength take the lead. My father held on to me, and I held on to the moment.

We live in the present, as we should, but our memories are gifts. They warm us, lift us, and instruct us. Memories are the insurance that keeps special moments and the people we hold dear alive within us. The past is filled with the stuff that makes us whole.

Mentioning Unmentionables

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(Below is a throwback worth reposting.)

I picked up my dry cleaning a week after I’d requested to have it ready.  For some reason, the clothes I leave at the cleaner’s disappear from my closet and my mind the minute I tell the clerk to “Have a good day.”

Thursday was a banner day.  Not only did I finally remember to stop by the dry cleaner’s, I also knew I had three items to retrieve.  But when I reached into the car to hang the clothes, I saw four hangers under the plastic.

Now, on a rare occasion I’ve arrived home from the cleaner’s with an item of clothing belonging to someone else.  So, I patted myself on the back and thought, “Ah ha, caught it this time–right in the parking lot.”  

I held up the bag.  The extra hanger was easy to spot because it didn’t appear to be sporting any clothing. Further inspection revealed a small, clear plastic bag looped through the wire neck. Folded neatly inside the bag was a pair of underwear–women’s underwear.  

My underwear.  

A yellow tag, safety pinned to the waistband, assured me that, “Yes, your underwear has been most sincerely and thoroughly dry cleaned.”

Mentally, I retraced my steps.  I’d thrown the clothes bound for the cleaners onto the bed, beside the things I’d just removed from the dryer.  When I scooped up the pile to head out the door, I must have grabbed more than I realized.  

I could have inadvertently picked up a t-shirt, a dishtowel or Gary’s boxer shorts.  But, no, I snatched up a pair of my—as the nurse at a Girl Scout camp in Bluefield called hers years ago—unmentionables.

I laughed.  I laughed out loud.  I laughed all the way home.

Then my mind went wandering.  I wondered what went through the clerk’s head as she separated my clothes?  Did she think to herself, “One shirt, two pairs of pants, and one pair of underwear,” as though she sees them everyday?  Or was it more like: “One shirt, two pairs of pants and…and…and—UNDERWEAR?”  

I could picture her holding them up, the smallest bit of waistband pinched between her finger and thumb.  Her glasses propped up by the tip of her nose, eyes squinting as if to say, “What’s this?”

Women’s lingerie comes in all styles, shapes and sizes.  So, the good news was this particular pair was of the everyday, boring variety. And, they were already clean.

I wondered:  Are there people who dry clean their underwear?  Maybe there are those who do.  I am not one of them.  Wait a minute.  I guess I am now one of them—just not on purpose.  

My washer’s delicate and hand wash cycles have done a fine job over the years.  I honestly don’t own anything in the category of underwear on which the tag reads, “Dry Clean Only.”

It occurred to me that clothes undergo a number of steps, and therefore pass through a number of hands during the mystical process of dry cleaning.  So, I looked up “How Dry Cleaning Works” on HowStuffWorks.com.  I love that site.  

Sure enough, up to seven people had the opportunity to take one look at my underwear, double check the name, and say, “McCutcheon.  Nutcase.”  My unmentionables were officially tagged, inspected (great), pretreated, dry-cleaned, pressed, folded, and packaged.  Someone actually steamed and pressed my underwear?   

Did the Underwear Bomber think to have his shorts cleaned and starched before he filled them with explosives?

As for my very special pair of dry cleaned underwear–I don’t know whether to wear them or frame them.  For now, they are in a drawer.  The yellow tag, secured in place by its safety pin, speaks to me on a daily basis.  It says, “You are human..you are human…..you are human….”

Oh, to be a kid again

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Kids strive for independence. If you ask me, that philosophy is turned around and upside down.

Think about it.

A baby cries, and every adult within hearing range rushes to the crib or bassinet or wherever the infant’s parking spot happens to be at that moment.

“What’s the matter, sweet baby?”

“Ahhh, what is it, little one?”

“Do you need your diaper changed?”

“Are you hungry?”

It doesn’t take long. Babies figure out they have everyone at their beck and call. Once they do, they “work the system”—their wishes become the adults’ commands.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children have personal full-time chefs. Not only do those chefs cook every meal, but they hand-deliver it to the table.

Oftentimes, the child doesn’t even have to pick up a fork. The chef will do that for him, wipe excess food away from the little one’s face, and clean up the kitchen afterward.

That same chef doubles as a chauffeur, which comes in handy when said child wants to veer from the routine and visit Chick-fil-A, Dairy Queen, or a pizza spot.  

Momma (or Poppa) chauffeur drives them everywhere—school, swim practice, football games, the movies, church youth group, the pool, birthday parties, the grandparents’ house, and more.

Momma and Poppa cover the gas and the car insurance. And Grandma’s house takes “beck and call” to a whole new level.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Adults run to wipe their noses at the hint of a sneeze. Children are held and cuddled and rocked at the whisper of a fever.

In truth, children are held and cuddled and rocked just because they are, well, children.

Adults buy all their clothes and wash them when required. Children don’t stress over what to wear; their adults choose their outfits for them.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children get the coolest, fun-themed birthday parties thanks to the adults who plan and pay for the entire shebang.

Shebang. I have never, as in ever, typed that word, yet there it is—twice. I could have said “affair,” but shebang is much more fun.

But I digress….

Kids get imaginary friends, and everyone goes along with the idea. Well, not everyone.

When he was a toddler, my brother Gerald played with Davison Robbins day in and day out. We, his older siblings, came home from school each day and said, “Hey, what did you and Davison Robbins do today?” and “Did you and Davisson Robbins have fun today?”  

Our mother told us to stop “encouraging” the situation. We weren’t. Scout’s honor. We were jealous; we wanted a good pretend friend like Davison Robbins.

Kids have shoes that light up and can wear dress-up clothes and crowns anytime they desire. Their adults read to them, hear their prayers, and tuck them in.

Little ones have everyone coming and going at the snap of a finger when they make their first tactical error around two years of age.

That’s when the “do it myself” compulsion sneaks in and takes over. As soon as toddlers grasp the art of vocabulary, they repeat, “I can do it. I can do it” and “I want to do it myself. I want to do it myself.”

Big, as in HUGE, mistake.

Oh, for a good long while, the adults stand firm and insist on doing and helping and coddling. Eventually, though, the child wears them down. Eventually, the adult in charge sits back and says, “Ok. Sure. You do it.”

It starts with small tasks like putting on socks and shoes. Zipping. Buttoning.

Next thing you know, they’re wiping their own noses, driving their brothers and sisters to school, getting jobs, and buying their clothes. Next thing you know, the child who had the world at her feet is an adult.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Mrs. Murphy

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life, Friends & Family, Places1 Comment

Some people come into our lives and stay for a while. Others dance and flicker among us for a brief moment, like a candle’s flame.

How long people have known us has little to do with the impression they leave on us. Sometimes, we don’t realize the extent of that imprint until much later.

That’s how it is for me with Mrs. Murphy.

Every now and then, Mrs. Murphy rises from my heart and into my consciousness. I can’t say what triggers the appearance of those memories, but I welcome them all the same.

She was the Music Director at the First Baptist Church of my childhood in southern West Virginia. I picture her tall with a solid frame, but then I was small and skinny.

Her close-cropped dark hair held a bit of wave or curl. Maybe a perm? She wore black framed eyeglasses with upswept corners (in cat-eye fashion)—or so, I thought.

Mrs. Murphy’s responsibilities included directing all choirs, Cherub, Youth, and Adult.

“Responsibilities.” I wrote that word with hesitancy. Mrs. Murphy exhibited so much joy in what she did that it never occurred to me it was part of a job.

She even made certain the kids’ choirs had holiday parties, Halloween, Easter, and Christmas.

When my friends and I were promoted to Youth Choir, we walked to the church every Wednesday after school for practice in the big sanctuary with an inclined floor.

Mrs. Murphy got a workout at those practices. She spent the first 15 minutes running up and down the middle aisle in her chunky heels, trying to get the boys to stop rolling under the pews and take their places in the choir loft.

“Now, boys, come out from under there,” she said with firm gentleness.

Then, she clapped her hands to coax a little stronger, “Come along, now, boys. It’s time to get started.”

My brother Donald, two years my junior, was born with a baritone, man-sized voice. He took his place in front of the church with the Cherub Choir, in his white robe and ginormous red bow, and belted “Jesus Loves Me” like a miniature Johnny Cash with a little added thunder. The rest of the cherubs were reduced to a tweet here and a tweet there.

I was a cherub alumnus by then. Donald’s “Jesus Loves Me” roar sent our brother John and me into titters, followed by giggles until we tumbled from the pew and tried to smother our howls into the deep red carpet. We hiccupped rising chortles, but that didn’t keep tears from laughing all the way down our cheeks.

Mrs. Murphy remained unfazed.

On Sunday mornings when the little ones took front and center, her hands and arms sang with the notes as she led her Cherub charges. The louder Donald’s voice, the bigger her smile.

When thoughts of Mrs. Murphy came to me last week, it occurred to me that I knew very little about this woman I admired. We lost touch after I moved away in 6th grade.

I emailed my very first best friend, Stilts, whose parents called her Nancy, but I never would.

“…I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Murphy, our choir director. I loved her! Do you know what happened to her? I can’t recall her first name. Ugh.”

Stilts wrote back, “…Her name was Florence Murphy and her husband, Eugene…they were the most fabulous couple at church and as neighbors.”

Lucky Stilts, to have had Mrs. Murphy for a neighbor.

I don’t know if Mrs. Murphy enjoyed gardening, if she had a dog, or liked to cook. I don’t know if she had children or how many. I don’t recall the color of her eyes.

I do know she brought music to the hearts of many. And she loved children.

Maybe, for me, that was enough.

May 24th

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life, Friends & Family2 Comments

May 24th is a special day, not just for Gary and me, but for our family. Had it not been for what took place on May 24th, our three children wouldn’t be here.

In the absence of our children, the spouses of our two married kids would be committed to someone else. Or perhaps they would be single.

Without our children’s unions, our baby grands would not be crawling and toddling around and making us laugh over and over and over again.

On this May 24th, Gary and I are at the point in our lives when scrolling through documents to find our birth year could cause a thumb sprain. We have lived under the same roof waaayyyy longer than we lived with our parents. Together, we’ve written an insignificant history that means something to us.

May 24th may have meaning to various people for different reasons. On May 24, 1883, the architectural wonder called the Brooklyn Bridge opened, traversing the East River to connect Brooklyn to Manhattan.

Today, more than 100,000 vehicles, 4,000 pedestrians, and 2600 bicycles cross the bridge daily. I wonder how many singles would not have become couples had the Brooklyn Bridge not been constructed.

Bob Dylan was born May 24,1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Had both sets of his grandparents decided not to emigrate to the United States (in 1902 and 1905), his parents probably would not have found each other.

Had that hypothetical situation played out in real life, Robert Allen Zimmerman, who became Bob Dylan, would not have been born. The music that wasn’t written by the Dylan who did not exist would not have inspired numerous musical artists then or now.

From a fan’s standpoint, think of a world without “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

On the flip side, R&B icon Tina Turner died at age 83 on May 24, 2023. The electric voice behind “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “Private Dancer,” and “We Don’t Need Another Hero” entertained crowds for 65 years.

In 1938, on—you guessed it—May 24th, a patent was granted to Oklahoma lawyer/publisher Carl Magee for the first coin-operated parking meter. He came up with the idea after local merchants complained about the same cars monopolizing parking spaces day in and day out, causing low sales.

Magee was born on January 5, 1872, and I don’t wish it otherwise. But, gee, Magee, I wish he had invented something else.

On May 24th (1994), the four men responsible for bombing the World Trade Center were each sentenced to 240 years in prison. In 1830, the first line of the B&O Railroad opened.

Irish author William Trevor was born on May 24, 1928. Major League Baseball held its first night game in Cincinnati when the Reds beat the Phillies, 2-1 (1935).

Still, May 24th might just be another random day to you. But not to me.

May 24th is the day my dad walked me down the aisle and put my hand (and his trust) in Gary’s.

Gary could have let doubts, probably many, turn his car around. I could have swapped my heels for tennis shoes and sprinted out of the church.

But we showed up.

Had Gary and I not found our way to the Baptist Temple in Fairmont on that May 24th, 100 or so years ago, there would be no “us.”  Yes, there would still be a “he,” and I would be me. But trust me when I say, we’re much stronger, smarter, and way more fun as “we.”